


Fathomless

by lalejandra



Category: lotrips
Genre: Aragorn - Freeform, Character Study, Gen, Sex, Transformative Works Welcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-01-30
Updated: 2004-01-30
Packaged: 2019-07-17 14:12:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16097267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalejandra/pseuds/lalejandra
Summary: Viggo knows that people don't look at him and think: sex. They look at him and think: Aragorn.





	Fathomless

Viggo knows that people don't look at him and think: sex. They look at him and think: Aragorn. They look at his flat eyes and think he's either very deep or a serial killer. They look at his fingers, blunt and round, and think he's a carpenter.

He doesn't see himself as a carpenter, although he would never deny building things. He builds people—in characters, in photographs, in paintings—and he sees fatherhood as a natural extension of this. But people don't look at him and see a father. They see his floppy hair and his long legs and broad shoulders.

People see Aragorn. Mostly no one realizes that Aragorn was built just as carefully and precariously as Henry, out of bits of hair and string and honey and a tea bag and some whisky.

They look at his receding hairline and think he's old, at the dent in his chin and think he's sassy, at his worn and faded jeans with smudges of paint and charcoal and think he's creative. That's something else he can't deny—he creates things. People. Characters. Babies. Death.

They look at his feet and think that he's a free spirit because they are so often bare. But his feet sweat, and he likes to let them absorb his environment. With his feet on the ground, he is in touch with so many things—things he doesn't know about or understand or even believe in. It's more than a metaphor when it's something you don't even notice, he thinks, and he never realized how often he went barefooted until magazines started mentioning it. He doesn't quite get what the big deal is—he just likes to have grass between his toes.

Sometimes people think he's romantic. Women, especially. It's because of Aragorn, because they look at him and see a wig and a beard and a ring and leathers. They look at him and see themselves as the beautiful Arwen (or, sometimes, he knows, the beautiful Legolas), and they think of large swords and larger… swords.

People do not look at Viggo and think he has a sense of humor, but when you haven't had sex in almost six years, you can't do anything but laugh. It's not just because he doesn't believe in sleeping with coworkers even when the characters fuck, and it's not just because he has a teenage son. And it's not just because sometimes women sneak into his hotel rooms and flats and lay naked on his bed and it's all so tasteless.

It's because when people look at Viggo, he knows, they don't think about sex. They don't think about hard, raw fucking. They don't think about his teeth in soft skin or his fingernails leaving marks or his hip bones bruising the body underneath him. They think about roses and wine and tenderness.

But Viggo thinks about sweat and semen and used condoms as floppy as his hair on the floor the next morning. He thinks about squelching noises that are completely obscene, and grunts and groans and animal howls. He thinks about threading his fingers through hair and pulling, tugging on nipples, gnawing at bellies. He thinks about having his cock sucked and his toes licked and his mouth sore and aching.

He thinks about creation and becoming more than the sum of his parts and building space—and the empty mind of fucking for hours and hours without cessation, the raw and tender skin and deep purple bruises. Blood, dripping down to form rusty brown patterns on white cotton sheets, and the plastic smell of lube.

Viggo knows that when people look at him, they don't think of him as the kind of guy who likes to have his ankles tickled. They see his long, thin fingers and think he's a musician; his pointed nose marks him as a poet. He would never deny that sometimes he likes to play guitar or pen verse—who doesn't? But he likes other things, too; he **is** more than the sum of his parts, and doesn't understand why the people who see everything else can never seem to see **that**.

  



End file.
